


When Nothing is Left

by MercurialTenacity



Series: It's A Cruel World for Small Things [7]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Captivity, Cock Warming, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dehumanization, Despair, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Objectification, Past Torture, Rape, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 16:26:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13170720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercurialTenacity/pseuds/MercurialTenacity
Summary: Credence doesn't feel like he's living, not anymore.  He watches Graves and Grindelwald from his position on the floor as they talk.  It's growing late, and Credence wonders if they'll leave him out when they go to bed or if they'll put him away tonight.  He thinks distantly that he doesn't want to sleep on the hard floor again.  He misses the days when he was allowed to sleep in one of their beds, warm in the soft blankets.  It had been bliss, though he hadn't realized it at the time.He’d still been a person then.





	When Nothing is Left

**Author's Note:**

> Please be aware that this work deals heavily with suicidal thoughts and attempted suicide. Know yourself and make good decisions about whether to proceed

Credence doesn't feel like he's living, not anymore.  He watches Graves and Grindelwald from his position on the floor as they talk.  They don't look at him.  Credence is laid out on his side, naked, crumpled in the same pile he'd fallen in when Graves had discarded him.  Come leaks from between his thighs, and his hole throbs.

He doesn't move.

It's growing late, and Credence wonders if they'll leave him out when they go to bed or if they'll put him away tonight.  He thinks distantly that he doesn't want to sleep on the hard floor again.  He misses the days when he was allowed to sleep in one of their beds, warm in the soft blankets.  It had been bliss, though he hadn't realized it at the time.

He’d still been a person then.

Graves’ and Grindelwald’s conversation tapers out, and they shut off the lights when they leave the room.  Credence shivers and closes his eyes.

No act of defiance was worth this, however panicked and instinctual it had been.  He’d lost everything he didn’t know he still had.  He can’t even apologize after Graves took his voice, can’t plead _please, anything you want sir, please use me, I’ll do anything._  Anything, to end this hell.  It doesn’t matter.  He has nothing to offer them that they don’t simply take.

He still bares the words which define him.  Shiny pink skin scrawls them across his body, new and soft and tender after the scabs fell away.  

_Worthless.  Property.  It._

He knows it’s true, as though the words were cut upon his very soul.  He is what they make him, and there is nothing else.

He is nothing else.

 

 

He wakes the next morning to footsteps on the floor beside his head, and then hands on his jaw, turning his head and opening his mouth.  Credence’s eyes flutter open.  Grindelwald is pressing the vial to his lips, tipping the thick potion into his mouth.  The Potion.  They must be going out today.  He is only allowed consciousness when Graves and Grindelwald are there, and the Potion ensures it.

The Potion is cold on his tongue, slightly bitter, but mostly it tastes like nothing.  It’s fitting, Credence thinks, because when he swallows it he feels like nothing.  Without them he has no purpose.  Without them, there's no point to him.  

None at all.

All it takes is a few drops.  Grindelwald drops his head and it thuds against the floor.  His vision is darkening, the Potion already taking effect.  

He'll be nothing until they come back.

 

 

He feels hands on him before he really wakes.  He doesn't know how long it's been, but he knows his bones ache.  He can't tell who's grabbing him at first - their touches have grown too similar, too utilitarian.  They grab him however will most quickly get him in the position they want, hands rough on his skin, fingers leaving careless bruises.  As awful as it had been, Credence finds himself longing even for Grindelwald’s painful touches.  Grindelwald had always taken his time, he'd enjoyed Credence, and the torture he inflicted was terrifying but at least then he'd been something worth looking at.  Now he's only there for a quick fuck, impersonal and cold.

He's hauled onto the couch, thrown face down in the pillows while his hips are yanked backwards.  A cock thrusts into his hole, and it feels like Grindelwald’s.  

It splits Credence open.  He's used to being fucked but his hole is unprepared, spasming excruciatingly around the intrusion.  His screams are silent.  He isn't sure if he remembers what his voice sounded like, it's been so long since the silencing charm stole it from him.  He'll probably never speak again, and he weeps harder when he remembers he has no reason to.

Grindelwald grunts above him, his thrusts brutal as he he slams into Credence for his own pleasure, and there's nothing Credence can do but wait for it to be over.  He feels sick with the violent intrusion, the remnants of the Potion in his blood making his head lurch and spin.  He curls his fingers into the blanket beneath him, hands clenching and unclenching in time with Grindelwald’s thrusts.  It's the only movement he attempts.

He doesn’t know how he became this.  He barely remembers being anything else.

Grindelwald comes with a groan and drops Credence’s hips, wiping his softening cock on his ass as he pulls out.  Credence is relieved, almost.  He should be relieved that the pain has stopped, he should be glad, but as Grindelwald’s footsteps leave the room all he feels is empty.  He's alone, touches gone, and he doesn't know why he should crave contact when he's fucked so often but he still does.  He's not for touching, not for holding or caressing.  

Just for fucking.

Credence’s tears dampen the blanket beneath him.  Anything would be better than this.  When Graves and Grindelwald first found him.  The New Salem Society.  Ma’s lashings.  Anything.  Nothing.  Nothingness would be better than this.  He’s not a person, he’s not alive, he barely exists.  

He wishes he didn’t exist.

 

 

Later that evening Graves finds him, taking hold of him by the hair.

“You left it on the couch, Gellert,” he complains.  “Its filth will get everywhere.”

“I didn't want to touch it,” Grindelwald says off handedly.

Graves’ grip sends little shocks of pain through Credence’s scalp, and he hurries to comply with Graves’ movements.  He ends up kneeling beneath Graves’ big desk, tucked out of sight and bracketed by Graves’ thighs as he sits down.  The hard wood of the floor sends pain shooting through his knees, and he winces as Graves frees his cock from the front of his trousers.  Credence opens his mouth by reflex, but it doesn't stop Graves from carelessly hitting Credence’s cheek with it before pushing inside.

Graves’ cock is thick and heavy on his tongue.  It fills his mouth and leaves little room to breathe, the taste and scent permeating him.  He's not hard yet, and Credence tries to lick along the underside of the shaft but he's stopped by Graves’ hand tightening agonizingly in his hair.  His eyes water with the pain, unseen beneath the desk.

Credence relaxes his jaw, taking Graves as deeply as he can while Graves rests his cock in his mouth.   Credence can hear him moving papers around, and then the scratch of a quill.  Everything as normal.

Graves and Grindelwald exchange scattered conversation while the saliva wells up in Credence’s mouth, and they chuckle over something Credence doesn’t hear as it spills over his lips and drips onto his bare chest.

Credence feels disgusting, but no more so than usual.

 

 

Credence can't do this anymore.

He's left lying halfway beneath Graves’ desk as they turn the lights out for the night, and he can't.  Everything he's done has only made it worse, and now he's here.  It doesn’t matter what he does, Graves and Grindelwald will always be greater than him.  He’s a vestige, remaining only for them.

And he can't do it.

He’d tried to escape when they first caught him.  The memories are hazy, but he knows he tried.  He’d longed for the life he almost had, in charge of himself and his choices and his fate.  He’d ached for it.

They have ways of trapping him that he couldn’t imagine, much less overcome.  Grindelwald had ensured he did not try again.

He feels nothing when he thinks of that hope now.  It was never real, and he has always been weak.

Now when he thinks of escape he thinks only of not being _here._  There is nowhere to go, nothing besides this, and he harbors no thoughts of _control_ or _personhood._

Yet still, he cannot remain like this.

Credence doesn’t know how long he lies on the floor.  His muscles shake with disuse as he gathers his limbs beneath himself, and the moment he rises onto all fours he nearly crumples down again, terrified of what would happen if Graves or Grindelwald were to walk back through the door and see him like this.

But the door stays closed, and soon it won’t matter.

He crawls the long way over to the cabinet against the far wall, and all he knows is that he has to escape.  His limbs are trembling uncontrollably by the time he gets there, and he has to be escape.  He uses the last of his strength to pull himself up, gripping the cabinet and hauling himself upright until he can reach the shelf.  It will be over soon.

He can’t see it in the dark, and he has a moment of utter panic that it’s all for nothing - but a glint catches his eye, and _there._  He reaches out a shaking hand for the Potion, uncaps it as he sags precariously against the wall, and swallows it all.

He drops heavily to the floor, world swimming before his eyes as the Potion floods his system. The world wavers in and out, or maybe he wavers in and out, or maybe there isn't any difference.  He hears noises, bright light floods his eyes, but soon it won't matter.  Maybe none of it was even real, all the pain, all the despair, and now it's all going to turn into nothing again, he's going to turn into nothing, finally, nothing...

_“Boy?”_

 

 

He’s retching, someone’s gripping his shoulders painfully tight, and it’s as though his insides are intent on turning inside out.

“- was he thinking?”

“It’s unfortunate.”

“Son of Merlin -”

 

 

“Damn you - Gellert, hold this -”

Something’s being forced past his lips and he doesn’t want it, he tries weakly to turn his head to the side, it was supposed to end, why didn’t it end?

 

 

“Please no, no more, please no more I can’t, I can’t, please sir, please -”

“Will you shut up -”

“Pathetic.”

“- for a goddamned second?”

Credence doesn’t recognize the pleading voice.  For a moment it sounds familiar, as if… but it can’t be, no, he doesn’t talk.

 

 

Credence feels hazy, weak and shaky like he’s had a fever.  He opens his eyes enough to see the living room, Graves’ desk in one corner, and he’s seen enough.  It’s the closest he’s ever been to escape, and they dragged him back.  He should have known he could never escape.  He should have known.

Credence shocks himself with the volume of his sobs.  After so long in silence it's jarring to hear himself, and he doesn't understand how he's capable of it now.  He doesn't understand what happened, he can't get a bearing on his surroundings and he doesn't want to.  He's still naked but there's a blanket over him for some reason, and he twists in it as the sobs wrack his body.  He tries to make himself stop crying but he can't, no matter how much he fears punishment for the noise he's making.  He tries to choke back the sobs but they burst out of him, overwhelming him.

Eventually he becomes aware of someone else in the room, and he squeezes his eyes tighter shut.  He doesn't know what they're going to do to him.  He doesn't know how it could possibly get worse, but he no longer doubts them.

Graves’ hand falls on his hip, and Credence stills.

“Hush, boy.  Be quiet.”

That at least is familiar, though it’s been so long since he’s been addressed that it’s jarring.  He looks up with puffy, tear-filled eyes, and he doesn’t understand.  He feels awful, woozy and flushed and weak, sweat-damp hair clinging to his forehead.  Graves can’t possibly want to use him now, he’s disgusting.

“You’re all right,” he says gruffly, then mutters, “Fucking stupid thing to do.”

Graves’ voice is rough, harsh, and yet there’s something in his tone that Credence can’t place.  It unsettles him.  He can’t imagine he’ll be forgiven.

He has no time to ponder it.  Graves slides a hand beneath his head, cupping the back of his neck as he brings a flask to Credence’s lips.  The liquid within is sweet and Credence swallows without protest, drifting rapidly into dreamless sleep.

 

 

The changes over the next few days are distinct.

They stop drugging him, and at the same time Grindelwald’s potions cabinet gains a lock.  The latter is to be expected, though Credence can’t explain why they allow him consciousness.  He’d expected them to drug him at night now as well, but it’s not his place to question what they do to him.  

As soon as he regains a semblance of strength Graves carries him to the bedroom, lifting him from the couch blanket and all and depositing him on the bed.  Credence expects to be held down and fucked, used roughly and discarded.  His body is pliant, resigned, though he realizes with a stab of fear that he hasn’t been fucked for days.  He won’t be loose anymore.  It will hurt.

Graves tosses the bottle of slick down on the mattress beside him and he stares at it in shock.  He doesn’t remember the last time he was allowed to prepare himself, and he dares to look up at Graves for direction.

Graves snaps his fingers impatiently, but though Credence flinches he doesn’t seem angry.

“Hurry up boy, unless you’d rather be fucked dry.”

That night, after Graves finishes, Credence is not thrown from his bed.  Graves simply rolls over, and Credence is left to burrow beneath the soft blankets and sleep in warmth.

It’s days more before Grindelwald takes him, looking him up and down, eyes lingering as though contemplating what to do with him.  Credence waits, eyes cast down, and Grindelwald smirks.  “Come along, boy,” he instructs, and Credence obeys.

He cries when Grindelwald’s blade sinks into his flesh.  He cries, but the tumbling litany of _“thank you, thank you sir,”_ which spills from his lips betrays his tears.

They’ve made him human, now.  He is worthless, he belongs to those who use him and has only the purpose they give him.  He has nothing of his own but he is not _it._ He is _boy._

He is human.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me at [mercurial-tenacity.tumblr.com](http://mercurial-tenacity.tumblr.com)!


End file.
